


Strictly a One-Time Deal

by purplegertie



Series: People Do It on YouTube All the Time [2]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Belly Kink, Inflation, M/M, Stuffing, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-02-04 02:27:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1762917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplegertie/pseuds/purplegertie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen finally agrees to gain the twenty pounds Jared's been bugging him about. He enjoys the process a hell of a lot more than he expected to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strictly a One-Time Deal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [one_red_sock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_red_sock/gifts).



> Sooooo, one_red_sock said if I followed up on that weight gain tease that the last fic in this series ended on, then a doodle of some kind might appear at some point thereafter. And I am quite open to bribes, it turns out. (Although I won't hold you to that, Red, if life has picked up since then. :) )

“Fine,” Jensen tells Jared eventually. “Twenty pounds. Just so you shut up about it.” 

..

Jensen’s manly physique has never concerned him overmuch. Sure, he’s got a pinch or so of pudge, the kind that could turn to middle-age spread by the time he gets to middle age, but it’s just a little pinch. 

Now that Jared’s secret is out, though, he spends a lot of time palming that little bit of Jensen-pudge, mashing his face into it, licking. He tried licking into Jensen’s belly button once, even, which was weird for Jensen and a complete turn-off for Jared, judging by the noises he made. Jensen could have told him: belly buttons are gross.

Anyway, Jared has a thing for Jensen’s stomach, and he gets all eager and adoring when it comes into view, and that’s behavior that Jensen wouldn’t mind encouraging, for reasons Jensen chooses not to examine too closely.

Point is: Jensen figures his options are _exercise less_ and _eat more_. He’s not about to give up jogging. He loves jogging. Thus he’s sitting here all by his lonesome on his sofa, eyeing his plate with its two sandwiches stuffed full of toppings. It’s about half again as much as he’d usually eat for lunch. That sounds right. No belly busting here. Just – more. 

He tries not to think about what he’s doing. He’ll psych himself out if he’s not careful. Instead he lifts the first sandwich to his mouth and starts munching. It’s a good sandwich. He figured if he was going to start eating more, he’d better fucking enjoy it. He enjoys the crunch of lettuce and tomatoe, the savory salami flavors, and by the time he finishes it he’s almost entirely forgotten than he’s doing anything other than eat lunch. He swallows the last bite and licks mayo off his thumb, and he feels good, satisfied, ready to get back to his Saturday afternoon. 

There’s still a second sandwich on his plate.

Jensen eyes it distrustfully for a while. Finally he pats his stomach. “Goodbye, sweet abs,” he says, which is an exaggeration – he doesn’t really have abs in the first place. He hates crunches. Still. He sighs, picks up the sandwich, and starts working his way through.

By the time he’s done, he’s just edging into _uncomfortably full_. The sandwiches sit heavily under his ribs. 

..

 _More_ is the watchword. He buys extra snacks to take to work at the office – granola bars and Hot Pockets – and eats them on his breaks. After work he gets takeout, always with plenty more than he'd usually need. Emphasis on fried things and cheese, so, wontons and pizza and lasagna. By the time he's done with dinner, he doesn't really feel like doing anything but sitting in front of the TV and waiting for bedtime, his meal gurgling in his overfull belly. 

One night he eats an entire pizza, extra sausage and thick crust and all. He doesn't mean to. He meant to eat some for lunch tomorrow. But he sits down with the box and a NOVA marathon, and it's good pizza, and he doesn't realize what's happening until he reaches into the box and his fingernails scrape cardboard. He can't believe it for a moment; he squints at the box and then around the room, wondering where he put the rest of it. It's as he starts to move that the truth finally sinks in – the way the pizza is sinking into his stomach right now. He stares down at himself, disbelieving, and then yanks his t-shirt up and stares some more. 

There's his stomach, jammed full of pizza – not as big as when Jared made him bloat it, but still noticeably round. Distended, even. It's heavy, too, how it presses out and up; tight, barely giving him room to breathe. No question now where that pizza went. The evidence is right there in front of him.

He cups his hand against his stomach, feels its fullness inside and out. 

Jared should be here to see this. His eyes would glaze over in that way Jensen has admitted to himself that he likes, and his hands would be all over Jensen's stomach. He'd mumble delighted dirty nothings.

But Jensen can always do this again later, if he decides he wants to. There's a reason he hasn't gone around to see Jared this week, has placated Jared with texts and pleas of tiredness – which aren't entirely a lie, because digesting everything Jensen's cramming into his stomach takes a lot out of a guy. 

It's not the whole truth, though. 

Jensen wants to see this for himself, before he lets Jared in on it. He has to decide how he feels about it first. So now he straightens his back, which pushes his belly out farther, and he takes the rounded bloat in both hands, and he closes his eyes. Feels the pressure of all that pizza in him, the way his taut stomach fills his hands. He thinks about walking into work like this, or bigger even, paunch first. His stomach filled out, round and heavy over his belt or between his suspenders, all the more prominent for how tightly his button-down shirt contains it.

He's fully hard now. He unbuttons his jeans and slips his hand inside, and he remembers Jared's words spoken smugly in his ear – _Somebody likes being fat_ – and he comes with a shudder and a hot splash against his hand.

So that answers that question.

..

He meets Jared for lunch the next day. He kind of has to; he hasn’t seen the guy in a week, and Jared’s headed out for a business trip that’ll have him out of state until the end of the month. So they meet at a bar and grill so Jensen can order himself two Philly subs, which he chomps through with concentration and no small amount of pleasure. The glazed look Jared gets as Jensen eats is as addictive as any actual high Jensen’s ever tried.

Afterwards they take a detour to Jared’s apartment so they can shove up against the wall and dry-hump on each other until they come. It isn’t until Jensen’s back at work that it occurs to him they’ve never gotten a lunchbreak quickie before.

..

These are Jensen’s two weeks while Jared’s gone: data entry, stuffing his face, and the crap TV that’s generally on in the background while he’s stuffing his face. Well, his face and other parts of him.

A couple of days before Jared’s due back, Jensen notices his jeans are getting tight. Surely not; he’s only been on this all-you-can-eat diet for three weeks. There’s definitely a pinch, though. But he’s barely on time for work, so he puts that thought away for later.

Lunch is the most stupendous salad known to man, full of craisins and avocado and cheese and beans. As a salad, it’s a little skimpy on the greens, maybe, but they are after all beside the point. The point is that when he’s finished with his stupendous salad, it sits in his belly like a baby elephant, gurgling with what could be charitably described as baby elephant sounds. It was a huge salad, too; sitting out in his car, enjoying the sunshine and his salad, he finds himself unbuttoning his jeans to give himself room. He palms his belly and notices, now, the layer of flab that’s developed like butter spread over the bread. When he pokes it, it gives a little. A very little. 

There’s so little give, in fact, that he doesn’t want to button his jeans up again after. He spends the rest of the day at his desk with his shirt untucked to disguise his belly, peeking out round and white through his zipper.

He gets on the scale when he gets home. He’s put on fifteen pounds in three weeks. He stares at the scale a while, just to make sure, and then he goes and stands in front of the mirror. He pinches the softness he sees, not just around his stomach, although that’s where most of it’s gone, but also at his sides, where he thinks he sees the beginnings of love handles, and in his ass, which is squishing a little tighter and flatter in his jeans these days.

In the shower, he puts one hand on his dick and the other on his doughy, fish-white belly, and he comes in two minutes flat.

..

Jensen spends his weekend hours swimming floating on a sea of heavy, deep-seated ache radiating from his spine and from his upper belly, swollen drum-tight with every single mouthful he can force down his throat. Murmuring in the background, always, even while he’s moaning and massaging uselessly at his gut, is the teasing promise: _Somebody likes being fat._

..

Jared gets in Sunday night. He’s coming over Monday. He insists. Jensen shakes his head at the series of emphatic texts on his phone, and when he stops by the taqueria on the way home, he picks up extra plates of enchiladas and tacos. He sticks all the foil-wrapped containers in the oven when he gets home. Twenty minutes later, Jared pokes his head around the front door. Jensen can see the moment the dinner smell hits him; his eyes light up. “Dude.” 

Then Jared remembers himself, and his eyes land hungrily on Jensen. He doesn’t say anything, though; doesn’t ask if Jensen’s hiding anything new under his baggy t-shirt. So Jensen ignores the look and just goes to the kitchen for the food. 

They settle in front of the TV with enchiladas and tacos and beer. Jared tears through his food in nothing flat, and then he shrugs back against the sofa with his beer and watches Jensen.

There’s not much to see, at first. It’s Jensen, eating tacos and cursing when the filling falls out. Then the enchiladas, which are like heaven with cheese, as far as Jensen is concerned; he is a true heir of Texas. He finishes the third tin, sets it on the table, and pats his stomach appreciatively. “That was pretty great,” he says.

“Yeah.” Jared’s disappointment is right there in his eyes. The dude is so fucking transparent.

“I bought some extra,” Jensen says. “I was thinking about having some more. You think I should have some more?”

Jared’s breath is sharp on the inhale. “Fuck yes.”

As soon as Jensen turns away from Jared, he starts to grin. He grins all the way to the kitchen, and all the way back with three more tins. Jared’s eyebrows rise, and a now-familiar flush rises to his cheeks. 

“I don’t know if I want them all,” Jensen says conversationally. “I might not.”

“Sure,” Jared agrees, eyes fixed on the enchiladas. Jensen follows his gaze and thinks about all that cheese coating his stomach, heavy and greasy. Anticipation kindles, deep in his belly. 

Jensen tries not to let any of that show, though it probably doesn’t even matter; it’s definitely not his face that all of Jared’s attention is on. Jensen settles back with the tin and a fork and starts in. He moans a little over the first bite, half for Jared and half because it’s just that damn good. He swallows, enjoying the accomplished, finished feeling of the bite settled down into his stomach, and then he applies himself to the next one.

Over the last three weeks, he’s found a rhythm for nights like these, a mental space barely broad enough to encompass his dish, his fork, and his stomach. Tasting each bite, imagining it churning and dissolving and digesting, pausing every so often to let a belch escape and his stomach settle that much more heavily after: for a little while, this is all Jensen wants. He hardly notices when the enchilada tin is empty; it’s a smooth, practiced transition to the taco tin. 

When he switches to the third, he does notice the intake of Jared’s breath, which jars him a little bit, momentarily. Jensen had sort of forgotten he was there. Now that he looks at him, Jared’s expression is a little glazed.

“You okay there?” Jensen asks.

“I’m fine,” Jared says, sounding slightly out of breath. “How are you?”

“Good.” Jensen pats his stomach, which prompts another belch.

“I wanna see,” Jared says. He flaps his hand towards Jensen’s stomach, in case Jensen was in doubt.

“You sure?” Jensen asks. “I thought maybe you’d wanna wait until I finished with the food.” He lifts the taco tin to demonstrate.

“Please?” Jared asks, his fingers flexing like they want to pull Jensen shirt up all by themselves. 

“Ehh,” Jensen hedges. He can’t help his grin now. When was the last time he had Jared so securely in the palm of his hand? That would be _never_. And it’ll stay that way, so long as Jensen never admits that he actually likes it. Any of it: the over-eating, Jared’s awed gaze, Jared. Just Jared. “There’s really not a lot to see.”

“Asshole,” Jared says. He shifts over on the couch until his knee knocks against Jensen’s knee, but still he doesn’t touch. His hands hover, and finally Jensen shoves the unfinished taco tin into them to give them something to do while he rucks his t-shirt up to his pecs. 

“Told you. Nothing new.” 

But he finds his food shoved back at him so that Jared can palm his belly with both hands. “Fuck.” Jared presses his face into Jensen’s new pudge. Then he presses a little too deep. 

“Oof.” Jensen shifts back from him a little. “Yo, you realize I’ve got like three dinners in me right now.”

Jared sits up and grins at him, a little wildly. “You think I could forget?” He thumbs gently under Jensen’s belly button. “Fuck. Come on, let’s get your shirt off.” Jensen lets Jared pull it over his head. Now Jensen is bare to the world, softening pecs and flabby belly and all. Jared’s hands immediately return, rolling pinches of Jensen between his fingers.

“Right,” Jensen says. “So, I’ll just finish this, shall I?”

“Yeah,” Jared breathes.

“You gonna move your hands?”

“Nope.”

So Jensen eats like that, Jared’s hands and wide-eyed attention fixed on his belly. The breather gave Jensen a little room, too, it feels like, because when he scrapes the tin clean and swallows the last bite, he doesn’t want to stop. He sits back and closes his eyes, assessing. “Beer,” he decides. “Get us the rest of that six pack out of the fridge.”

It’s comedic, how fast Jared scrambles to his feet. He comes back in with the beers and sets them on the coffee table. 

“Kinda full,” Jensen says conversationally, reaching for the button of his jeans. “Need a little more room.” He glances at Jared, and he could swear he was holding his breath. Jensen unfastens himself and heaves a sigh of relief. “Now for the beer.” He takes a bottle and twists the cap off, and then he takes a long, cool swallow. He can feel the coolness streaming now his throat, into his stomach. He imagines it splashing over all that cheese, and then he takes another swallow.

This was all he needed, he thinks. A little something to fill in the cracks. He shifts a little and groans at the heavy pressure in his gut. “Fuck, I’m full.”

“Let me help,” Jared says, like he was just waiting for an invitation Jensen didn’t know he was giving. His hands land on Jensen’s stomach again and press gently against the solid mass that is Jensen’s dinner. “Fuck, I can feel how full you are.”

“No kidding, asshole.”

Jared ignores him. He keeps framing Jensen’s stomach in his hands – and, yes, even through the flab it is noticeably swollen now. It bows roundly outwards. “God, look at you.”

Not that Jensen isn’t fucking delighted with that note of awe in Jared’s voice, but, “I thought you said something about helping.”

“Oh. Right.” With what Jensen considers a hilarious amount of reverence, Jared starts to massage Jensen’s stomach.

It. It’s nothing like when Jensen’s done it himself, as an afterthought. He groans, and Jared freezes. “Don’t you fucking dare stop,” Jensen bites out. So Jared starts again, his huge hands working the skin of Jensen’s taut, overfull belly like stubborn clay.

“You still working on that beer?” Jared asks.

“Hell, yes,” Jensen agrees, and takes another pull. His Tex Mex is fully settled in now, and he could stop anytime and feel like he’d done a good night’s work, but these right here are the best moments, the dizzying seductive interval between _full_ and _too much_. He takes another swallow, and he’d swear he can feel his belly stretching to accommodate, even though it’s got to all be in his head.

Or maybe not. “Fuck,” Jared breathes, his hands fallen still over the full swell of Jensen. “Do that again.”

So Jensen does. He might as well already be drunk for how giddy he is, swallowing the liquid down and feeling it fill him. He’d float away if the center of him weren’t so fucking heavy. “Keep rubbing,” he says, and Jared starts again, massaging circles into Jensen’s skin. 

Jensen finishes off the last of the beer and thrusts the bottle awkwardly at Jared, who fumbles it before setting it on the table. “How’re you feeling?” Jared asks.

“Like I swallowed a brick or three.” Jensen palms his belly. There’s no give. Jensen half-wants to another beer. In a few minutes, maybe. “Fuck, it feels good.”

“Yeah?”

Jensen freezes. Shit. Now Jared has leverage. For basically the first time since he started this thing, Jensen feels a hint of nausea.

But Jared’s not laughing. He’s staring at Jensen with huge, hopeful eyes. So Jensen takes his dignity in his hands and says, “Yeah. Dude, you have no idea. It’s like—” He pauses, flushing, but Jared doesn’t even crack a smile. “I feel so fucking huge like this. More than I look, I mean. And it’s all right here.” He pats his stomach. It’s a good stomach, holding so much food, so much beer. Rounding out so tight and full. He’s proud of it.

He’s _proud_ of it, what the fuck.

“You’re gonna get so fat,” Jared says in awe, as if he read Jensen’s thoughts.

Jensen blinks and tries to sit up, but he is somewhat impeded by the huge solid mass in his stomach. “Twenty pounds, dude.”

“Whatever,” Jared says, and presses his face to Jensen’s stomach. He mumbles his next words against Jensen’s skin. “You’re telling me you’re gonna stop eating like this when you hit twenty pounds?”

“I’m almost there.”

Jared lifts his head and challenges Jensen with a stare. “And?”

Jensen shrugs.

“You’re gonna be enormous. You’re gonna pop buttons on your shirts, you’re gonna have a gut out to here. Your rolls are gonna have rolls, dude. I can just grab handfuls of you and squeeze.” Jared tries to demonstrate, but a pretty good pinch is all he can manage. Jensen fights off an irrational pang of disappointment. “Tell me you don’t want this belly rolling over the top of your jeans.”

“Fuck,” Jensen says.

“You’re gonna eat like this every night, Jensen. You’re gonna swell up like a pasty freckled balloon, and you are going to be so. fucking. hot.”

“Twenty pounds,” Jensen says weakly, but the image is already burned in his mind’s eye, and he can’t think of a single damned thing he wants more.

THE END


End file.
